


Heart Design

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Hetalia Kink Meme, Incest, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wants to tell the world about their relationship. But the past is holding him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart Design

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the Hetalia kink meme and then reposted to LJ June 29, 2011. 
> 
> The OP asked for Russia and Ukraine to be in a secret relationship, and the drama that entails.

  
The thought strikes him quickly, as it always does—He never wants to be away from her. It arrives with such startling clarity that it nearly makes him forget everything else. This is not the first time it’s happened, though. These thoughts often arrive at the moments he least expects them, fly into his mind and—they always make perfect sense, as if he’d always thought it, as if he’d never forgotten it. He can remember how it warped, how it shifted, how everything changed and was changed and continues to change. He can remember how things did change, how these thoughts never used to arrive, or would arrive in the twisted shadows of something more sinister, not born from a desire to protect—rather, a desire to possess.   
  
Her fingers ghost along his skin and banish away the thoughts, at least for a moment, and his eyes find hers in the low lighting. Her breathing isn’t normal, as if holding her breath, as if she could see something was on his mind, how quickly the gentle, calm thoughts threatened to thread down a deeper, darker past. She smiles up at him. She’s calling to him, silently, silently begging him to look at her and only her, to let his thoughts fall away. Her fingers touch him.   
  
He can’t say no to her, not now.   
  
So with a small, contented sigh, he bends his head to lay his lips against her skin. He feels her shift below him, let out a small, shaky breath, and knows that he’s doing what she likes—knows that he is pleasing her. He kisses along the slopes of her breasts, working his way up over the jut of her collarbone, the curve of her neck. His mouth finds hers and he kisses her—slowly, recommitting the feel of kissing her to his memory. It’s been so long, too long. He feels her sigh out beneath him, feels her arms coil around the back of his neck and draw him closer, deepening their kiss. He feels her fingers curling into his hair and smiles against her mouth, just a little. He can feel her responding smile.   
  
He still thinks it’s strange to smile like this, to smile and know that it isn’t just a response, just an effortless attempt at friendliness, something that others fear. He knows that she likes his smile, the one that actually touches his eyes. She spends nights tracing her fingers over his mouth, her eyes warm, as she tells him all the things she likes about him. And he’s never thought before that such a thing could be directed at him, and yet, it was. It is.   
  
His hand slides down the lines of her body. He follows the sliding curves of her breasts, her stomach, her hips, her thighs. He touches her skin and feels her shudder beneath him, arching up against his hand, spreading her legs just a little.   
  
When he pulls away from the kiss, she’s smiling up at him, and the light is touching her eyes in the particular way that makes them glow—warm and solid and there. The hand threaded into his hair shifts away to cup his cheek. Her thumb strokes his cheekbone and she’s still smiling even as his hand shifts between her legs and presses up, sliding his fingers along her slick flesh. He watches her eyelids flutter just slightly, in anticipation, and she even bites her lip a little.   
  
He slips one finger in and she makes the soft, hitching sound in the back of her throat, her chin tipping back just a little. He watches her, fascinated, archiving every little look and sound she makes, the looks and sounds he’s already memorized and yet never grows tired of seeing and hearing. She tugs a little on his hair and he slips his finger in further, up to his knuckle. She is warm and tight and her legs quiver a little before she spreads them more and he settles in comfortably between them, leaning over her and kissing her forehead.   
  
Her eyes are a little misty, but she’s often on the verge of crying and the expression does not quite cause him alarm. He’s long since learned the differences between her tears, and what emotion is causing the crying. There’s the wistful look in her eyes tonight, which means, he reasons, that she is thinking of him and him alone. He likes it when that’s the case, likes when she can only linger on him and nothing else. It sparks something in his chest, something a little primal, perhaps a little dangerous, but also affectionate. He likes it when she is his and his alone.   
  
He slips a second finger in and she cries out, quietly, shaking her hips beneath him. His thumb presses against the spot that always makes her cry out and, sure enough, she writhes beneath him as he strokes her in circular motions, his fingers curling into her and spreading her.   
  
His other hand lifts, rolling a breast in his hand, his thumb flicking over the nipple as he holds up against her. She licks her lips, mouth parted and panting as she shifts her hands, holding onto his shoulders and tugging him closer so that she can kiss him as he moves his hands, stroking and pressing against her in all the ways he knows she likes.   
  
She writhes a little more and whispers a plea for more, and he doesn’t keep her waiting for long. He pulls away from the kiss as he pulls his fingers out from inside her, lifting his hand to lick the taste of her off his fingertips. Then he shifts, rolling his hips so he presses up against her. Her hand falls from his shoulder to help guide him inside of her, and he slips in. It’s snug, warm—but it’s her, and she coos out quietly as he begins to move, setting the pace that she meets easily in turn. His hand falls between them, and he continues to circle that little button of nerves. She cries out, and he can see the tears stinging the corner of her eyes, but she’s smiling, and clinging to him.   
  
He speeds up his pace and she arches up, curling her legs around his hips, heels pressing into the small of his back. She pushes him in tighter against her, rolls her hips to draw him in deeper. He responds, obeys her silent demands. He shudders, his hips pulsing up and down as he pumps in and out of her, filling her and feeling that constricting warmth. He pants out, once, and she’s smiling beneath him, lifting her head to kiss at the corner of his mouth, and then his cheek, and then his jaw.   
  
He tilts his head and catches her lips again, kissing her as he strokes against her a few more times and then feels her tense up beneath him, crying out a little against his mouth. She bites down, softly, against his lower lip as she shudders beneath him. He feels her tense up around him, feels her squeeze and writhe and moan quietly, her nails digging into his skin. He pulls his mouth away from hers and she moans slightly. He leans up, kissing the corners of her eyes, kissing away the tears that seem always to be there.   
  
He waits, patient, not moving, until she comes back down. Her heart is thundering up against her chest, and she’s breathing harshly, but she’s smiling again. Her fingers thread into his hair, combing through it. Tender, and still smiling—always smiling. But there’s that wistful look in her eyes again and he closes his eyes so he won’t see it, still hard inside her, focusing on the feel of her fingers in his hair.   
  
He wonders if he can start to move again, or if he’ll pull out of her so she can stroke him off. He always follows her lead, and it’s in these rare moments that he lets himself be controlled by someone else. She’s always so kind, so gentle, and even in her commands, he never feels commanded. Only guided.   
  
As if sensing his thoughts, she sighs out, relaxing, and wiggles out a little from under him, body relaxed and warm.   
  
“Let me,” she says, quietly, and pushes her hand against his shoulder. He obeys the command, pulling away from her, sliding out of her.   
  
And she’s moving, too, following after him, sliding out from under him and kissing at his jaw as her hands fall to his thighs, spreading his legs. He feels his body twitch as she kisses down his body. He stares at the curve of her body, the slope of her back as she makes herself comfortable, resting against her forearms, her backside in the air, as she presses a kiss to the swelled head of his cock. He makes a small choking sound as she takes the head of his cock into her mouth and sucks, her tongue laving up against the hardened flesh. She licks her tongue up and down, from tip to root, and curls around the flesh.   
  
His breathing comes harsher, but she does not relent. She takes as much of his cock as she can into her mouth and sucks, hollowing her cheeks and pressing her tongue up along the underside. It’s wet and warm and it takes all his restraint not to just start thrusting into her mouth. Instead, he tangles his fingers in her hair, hanging limp and disheveled without her clips and headband. He strokes through her hair, down her neck, and follows the bumps of her spine as she sucks on his cock. She knows exactly what to do to make him almost lose control, and he makes a few choking sounds before his hand finds it to the cleft of her backside and slides down, feeling out the wet, slickened folds there. She cries out quietly, lips around his cock, but doesn’t pull away completely—just enough to pillow her lips down along the length.   
  
His hips jerk up a little, involuntarily, and he can feel her smile against his cock as she kisses him one more time and then takes the tip back into her mouth, sucking. She looks up at him, her eyes bright, and he holds her gaze as he fingers her, sliding his fingers in and out of her in time with the movements of her mouth.   
  
He can feel the end approaching so he whispers, just a little, “I’m…”  
  
She’s still looking up at him and she nods her head just a little, understanding. She does not pull her mouth away and only continues the ministrations that drive him wild. So, it only takes a few moments more before he reaches his climax and with a small jerk of his hips, he fills her mouth. She doesn’t choke, but he feels her slow her pace down and drink him in. His cock falls from her mouth for a brief moment and the smallest ribbon of cum falls against her cheek. He lets out a low moan when she smiles and takes him back into her mouth, sucking him dry. His fingers slide in and out of her, unable to do much else because the urge to flip her open and start it all over again is so intense.   
  
She waits a few long moments after he has finished spasming before she pulls away. She sits up, and his fingers slide out from inside her. She lifts her hand and wipes her thumb at her face, collecting the spare threads of his cum before she licks it into her mouth, her eyes on him the entire time. She licks her fingers clean and then lifts his hand, too, sucking his fingers into her mouth and tasting herself.   
  
He knows he’s red-faced but he can’t be bothered to care, his breathing harsh and his heart thundering. He licks his lips, attempts to say something, but no sound comes out.   
  
She pulls away with a smile, her eyes soft. And then she laughs a little, cupping his cheeks.   
  
“You’re blushing, Vanya,” she says, laughing. She kisses his nose. “My cute little Vanya.”   
  
This probably only makes him even more red-faced, but he distracts himself by cupping her hips and drawing her closer so that he can kiss her. She makes a soft sound of surprise, but then kisses him back, still smiling and curling her fingers around his shoulders, anchoring herself against him.   
  
“You’ve lost a little weight since the last time we saw each other,” she says when they pull away. Her nose brushes just slightly against his but it had to have been an accident because it somehow doesn’t seem to suit the image he has of himself that he would like for his sister to do something like that to him.   
  
He’s noticed she’s gained a little weight, in turn, but he does not say that. She is still very pretty, he thinks, no matter what. And he wouldn’t want to make her unhappy accidentally. He does not think it’s bad that she’s gained weight. It means that she’s been able to eat enough.   
  
She settles down beside him, and her legs weave with his. She rests her head against his shoulder, looking up at him and smiling. He wraps an arm around her, protective, holding tight. She seems to sink into him and closes her eyes.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
The phone’s sudden ringing interrupts his sleep, and he feels more than hears his sister stir beside him, still curled up into his side. He blinks his eyes open and yawns, rolling his head towards the bedside table of the hotel room the two of them were sharing. It’s her phone ringing and she seems to realize that the same time he does, because she stretches out over him, grasps the phone, and sits up.   
  
She yawns, opens the phone. “Hello?”   
  
He sighs, lying back on the bed, thinking that perhaps he’d be able to fall back asleep, but his eyes are on the arch of her back—and it’s distracting.   
  
“Oh, good morning, sir,” she says into the phone, and he knows at once that she is speaking with her boss. He can see the way she fidgets, nervous. “Yes, I’m in my hotel room. Mm, yes, the meeting is in a few hours. Yes… yes, I’ll be prepared.”   
  
She continues to speak and chews on her lip. She glances over her shoulder at him, sees that he is still awake, and looks apologetic. She reaches out her hand and presses her thumb against his bottom lip, stroking it in apology.   
  
“My boss,” she says, quietly, as if he hadn’t already guessed as much. She tenses up a little when the man on the other end of the phone continues to speak. “Ah? Who am I with?”   
  
She looks at him, and he instantly shakes his head. She cradles the phone, sliding her body up and straddling him, looking down at him. She curls her fingers along his chest, idly, as she listens to her boss on the other end of the phone. She’s looking only at him, though, and he can see the pleading in her eyes—  
  
 _Let me say who I’m with,_ those eyes seem to say. _Let me tell them I’m with my brother, Ivan, Vanya—little Vanya, little Russia._   
  
He does not heed that desire, though, and ignores the look in her eyes. He slants his eyes down over her body, watching the way she holds herself above him. Naked, perfectly at ease, her hair limp in her eyes. He watches the way her hand slides up and down his chest, following the lines of his muscles. She’s really very pretty, but like this he can see all the faults and fault lines on her body—he can see each little scar he ever had a hand in giving her (and the ones he never gave her but could have prevented if he’d tried harder). See the effects he left on her in the past. In his quest to have one big family, in his quest to have control over it all. And, in the process, lose it all.   
  
He thumbs along a scar just above her hip, and covers the movement up by simply cupping her hip, drawing her a little closer. She smiles at him, sadly, her eyes large and threatening tears again—silently begging him. He will not respond.   
  
“I’m with no one,” she says at last, interrupting whatever her boss is saying, and her voice doesn’t sound nearly as cheerful as it did before. She shakes her head. “Mm, yes. It’s only me.”   
  
The man on the other end continues to speak. She continues to watch her brother below her.   
  
She sighs out. “I understand, sir,” she says into the phone. “I’ll work on that right away.” But she’s looking at him when she adds, softly, “I understand.”   
  
She leans in and kisses her brother’s forehead, and then pulls away, closing her eyes as she finishes up her conversation with her boss and hangs up the phone. She sighs out, slumping just slightly. She touches the hand on her hip, and pulls his hand away, threading their fingers together. His hand is so much larger than hers. But his are softer, he thinks. She’s worked so many years on farms that it’s impossible for her hands to be smooth ever again.   
  
She shifts her other hand up and strokes her thumb over his knuckles.   
  
“Vanya,” she says, quietly.   
  
He looks up at her.   
  
“I wish I could tell them,” she says, quietly.   
  
He shakes his head. “I…”   
  
“I know… I’m sorry,” she interrupts before he can tell her that they can’t say anything about it. “I should be more sympathetic—I know that… it’d be too troublesome for you, to have everyone know that I’m with you. You’d be unhappy. All I want is your happiness.”   
  
He wants to shake his head, wants to protest that, no, it was never her, it never could be her—it isn’t shame or trouble to be with her and it never could be. He frowns, and though he does not apologize, the apology must have been in his eyes because her expression softens and she lifts his hand, kissing each of his fingertips and then his knuckles. She lingers, and he breathes out, relaxing just a little.   
  
“Let’s get ready for the meeting, okay?” she says, quietly, slanting her eyes away and crawling off him. He misses the warmth instantly, and wishes he could make her feel at ease, reassure her that she is so very wrong when she assumes he’s ashamed of her.   
  
He can’t say it, though, so he pulls himself out of bed and follows after her, letting her help him dress.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
They walk into the meeting room together, and it’s already chaos, as usual. He places a hand on the small of her back, protectively, guiding her around what he perceives would quickly become wandering hands from Francis or unnecessarily firm reprimands from Ludwig. They walk together to their side of the table, and their sister is already there waiting—and he feels a shiver run down his spine when their eyes meet.   
  
His elder sister smiles at him and steps away from his hand, and goes to greet their sister. She is all smiles and warmth and it almost seems as if the morning is forgotten—except for the brief moments when she looks like she may begin to cry. And he knows that he is the one responsible for that expression, that he, more often than not, is always the reason for that expression.   
  
She sits down and he sits down beside her, smiling benignly as the meeting begins. It goes on the way it always goes—with the same old faces making the same old arguments, the same silly protocols and presentations. He finds it tiresome, more often than not.   
  
This meeting is like any other, and for this meeting he spends his time watching his sister out of the corner of his eye. She’s taking close notes. And he notices that she fidgets a little just before she makes her efforts to speak to the assembly of nations. He also notices how some of the (male) nations seem to linger on her for a little longer than he likes. But he thinks to himself that he should be calm, that everything is okay, but at some point he realizes that people are cowering and underneath the table she’s putting a comforting hand on his knee and looking up at him, silent pleading for him to calm down. He’d been so sure he was calm. He’d been so sure that no one could tell—he is smiling, after all.   
  
He keeps his eyes down and adjusts his scarf, but makes sure he remains smiling.   
  
The men look at his sisters often. He’s always known it’s so. They are beautiful girls. But knowing they are looking at his older sister upsets him more than he ever thought it would. If he could, he would make sure no one ever tried to seduce her, ever tried to take her away. He knows that she loves him, but this does not stop him from frowning at the men who seem to flock to her. But he cannot say anything. Their relationship cannot be known to others.   
  
He has his reasons for that. For one, he knows his youngest sister will not react kindly to the fact that her brother and sister are together. But that is something easily avoided (he hopes). What he fears most is the way the world would see it, the way it would be perceived. Her bosses would not be pleased. Europe would not be pleased. And she wants, more than anything, to have more friends in Europe and North America. Being so closely associated with him would only make people think back on the days of the USSR.   
  
And he hurt her so much back then. He does not want her to think of those times. He does not want to see her cry, does not want to see her unhappy. He does not want people to think that he is manipulating her as he did back then, hurting her, destroying her. He does not want to be the destroyer anymore. He wants them to be able to live happily, be able to live together as one. The only way to do that, then, is to protect the two of them from the outside world—pretend as if there is nothing behind the closed doors.   
  
He realizes he has drifted during the meeting. He cannot think of anything other than his sister, though.  
  
Once the meeting takes a recess, he makes a quick move to get away before his younger sister can latch onto his side as she often does. He does not mistake the way his older sister watches after him, eyes wide and, if he thinks about it too long, slightly sad. He wants to turn around, go back to her, hold her, linger with her. But he knows he cannot. So he keeps walking.   
  
He lingers in the washroom for a while until he’s certain that his younger sister would have given up and gone to plot for another day. Once he’s outside the door, he returns to the meeting room to see that, in his absence, Francis has gotten a bit too close to his older sister. He has one hand on the table and he’s leaning over her in a way that’s very flirtatious, other hand on his hip as he smiles and nods to everything she says. She is smiling and laughing—happy. He watches the way Francis’ eyes flit and slant to places where he shouldn’t be looking, by any means. He feels the distaste and anger curl inside him as he watches them, watches the way his eyes stay firmly downward, looking down the blouse she can never close all the way due to her bust size.   
  
So he strides over, smiling his greeting, and she seems happy to see him but Francis does not. He watches the way Francis frowns, turning towards whoever is interrupting them, and then watches him pale when he recognizes just who is looming over him and placing a hand on his shoulder, smiling widely in greeting. Francis suddenly remembers somewhere else he has to be and slinks away, leaving the two siblings alone.   
  
She smiles up at him, tilting her head to the side. Her hand shifts, reaching out to take his hand, but he ignores the beckoning and does not touch her in turn. She’s still smiling, though. “There’s still a while left before the recess ends. Do you want to—”  
  
“No,” he cuts her off, and he tries his best to keep smiling, but he can feel it crinkling at the corners, threatening a displeased frown. “Sister,” he says, grave, “I do not like you talking to people who treat you like that.”   
  
She looks confused, brows furrowing. “But,” she says, cautious, “Francis is only a friend. I don’t know what y—”  
  
“He was looking down your blouse,” he says, and reaches his hands up to adjust the top button of her blouse, trying to close it around her cleavage. She takes a step back, frowning. One hand rises to touch at her collar. Frowning does not suit her, he thinks.   
  
She lowers her eyes. “I… No, it’s fine. He was only saying hello, Vanya, he was—”  
  
“That’s all men want,” he says, though he’s not sure if he knows what he’s talking about—it’s just what he thinks when he looks at Francis, it’s just what he thinks when he sees his neighboring nations go at one another as if they’d never seen another body before. And he knows his sister is beautiful, someone that could cause any man, and some women, to do a double-take. And she often does. And she often does not seem aware of it herself.   
  
But she does not seem happy with what he is saying. Her eyes are still lowered and she does not speak for a moment. “All men?” she asks. “That’s the only thing they care about?”  
  
“Yes,” he says, with more conviction than he truly has. He is new to relationships, he is new to understanding these things. And though he has spent centuries knowing his sister, he cannot quite pinpoint this conversation into one of ease. He is not sure what she is thinking, what she is feeling, how she is reacting. He is lost. He is confused.   
  
And she is unhappy. “It’s… impossible for someone to just want to be my friend?” She shakes a little. “It’s impossible that anyone can see anything else but…” she trails off, but her eyes slant down to her chest for a moment before she jerks her face away. “Even you?”  
  
He is surprised by the sudden question. “I—”  
  
“This wouldn’t be a problem if—” she interrupts, and she so rarely interrupts. He’s taken aback by it. Her eyes are shiny, threatening tears, when she looks up at him. “If they knew the person I wanted to be with! They would know that… that I looked at only one person.” She breathes out, her voice a little shaky now. “You have nothing to be afraid of.” She turns her face away. “If all they care about is how I look, they’ll quickly lose interest—” he highly doubts that, “—and I’ll be alone again. And it’ll be fine—I’ll never be able to join the global groups I want to join and I’ll never be able to make friends because the only things they’ll want is to sleep with me and—and—”  
  
She’s crying. And then she is walking away quicklky, and he’s surprised. He follows her, grabs her wrist. She jerks out of his hold, eyes wide.   
  
This time the smile does slip from his face.   
  
“Sister—”  
  
“Please,” she begs, her voice weak and wavering with her tears, “Stop. Let me go.”   
  
He lets go, surprised, and she moves away before he can stop her. And she is quickly out the door and he is alone.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
When he returns to the hotel room that night, her suitcase is gone. They’d originally planned on sharing the hotel room together for the entire week they were in New York for the world meeting, but now it seems fate has taken another turn. The hotel room is clean and neat, and there’s no sign that she had ever been there.   
  
He sighs and drops his jacket over the chair, walking into the hotel room and sitting down at the foot of the bed.   
  
He hates to think that he’s made her cry again.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
The next day at the world meeting, she’s sitting in her same spot but she doesn’t turn to smile up at him with the same vitality that she normally smiles. It looks a little strained. He sinks down into his chair and sighs.   
  
He hardly pays attention to the meeting. His mind is elsewhere.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
It’s one of the Italian brothers talking to her during the recess. He comes into the room, though, and doesn’t have the ability to identify which one it is because as soon as the Italian catches sight of him, he turns tail and flees. His sister stands, staring after the other nation in surprise until she turns and sees her brother approaching her.   
  
She smiles. “Vanya. Good morning.”   
  
“Where did you go?” he asks without a greeting.   
  
She looks surprised by the sudden question, and she fidgets. “Ah… that is…”  
  
He waits, staring at her and refusing to pull his gaze away. She bites her lip, and there it is again—the telltale signs that she may begin to cry. He takes a step closer, places his hand on the table and leans over her. She looks up at him, all wide eyes and the slight parting of her lips. He doesn’t pull away.   
  
She lifts her hand, placing it against his chest. Not to push him away, but just to feel him.   
  
“I…” she begins, and hesitates. Her eyes are misty but she blinks rapidly and the look passes. She sighs out, just slightly.   
  
He lifts his free hand and touches hers, curling his fingers around it and lifting it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. She blinks her eyes in surprise, looking around the room to make sure that no one has caught him in this action—but, for once, he doesn’t think he’d care. Let them see.   
  
But there is no one but the two of them.   
  
Her smile becomes a touch more genuine. “I’m sorry… I was upset. I didn’t…”  
  
“It’s alright if you were upset,” he says. Then corrects, “If you are upset.”   
  
She lowers her eyes. “I… am upset.”   
  
He nods. He knows.   
  
She is silent for a moment.   
  
And so is he. They stand in silence, but he does not release her hand and she does not try to reclaim it.   
  
“Why can’t I tell anyone that I’m with you?” she asks, suddenly.  
  
He studies their hands. Hers is so small compared to his. Small, but not delicate. Not quite.   
  
He frowns. “It’d be—”  
  
“—troublesome, I know,” she interrupts, quietly.   
  
He shakes his head. “Not troublesome. Not for me. But for you.” She looks at him, skeptical. He frowns. “Because…”  
  
He trails off, not sure if he can quite say it—not sure if he wants to bring up the memories of their past. They’d been together then—all of them—but not even he had been happy, in the end. She worst of all. He remembers her crying almost every night, remembers seeing all the injuries that would eventually become scars, remembers all the times she stared at him with hollow eyes, wishing for a better situation than the one they were all in. He does not want to bring those memories up, not when she is finally starting to smile genuinely again, not when she finally seems happier.   
  
She takes a step closer. Again, something must have been in his face—something that only she could pick up on, so well and so perfectly every time—and she lifts a hand to touch his cheek, cupping it.   
  
“Vanya?” she whispers. “What’s wrong?”   
  
He breathes out. “Why do you want to tell anyone?”   
  
Her expression flickers. She says, without hesitation, “Because you make me happy.”   
  
He doesn’t say anything.  
  
She strokes his cheekbone with her thumb, her expression softening. “Because I love you. I want everyone else to know that I do. I want everyone else to know that you make me so happy when we’re together. But, when it’s like this, all I can think is that you are ashamed, that you are embarrassed.” Her voice wavers, just slightly, but she defies against the tears that are most likely pressing against the backs of her eyes. “It makes me think that maybe, if you could, you would rather be with someone else.”   
  
He shakes his head quickly and holds her hand tighter in his, pressing just a little closer. They are sharing the same air, now. He does not glance around to see if others are looking, if others have returned to the meeting room.   
  
“I am not ashamed,” he insists, and her expression flickers again.   
  
She is so small. Her hand is small, and her entire body is dwarfed next to his. He holds her hand tightly in one hand and places his other hand against her hip, cupping it, holding her close.   
  
“It is not shame, Sister,” he promises. “But I…”  
  
“I understand,” she says, and shifts, as if to move away—and he knows that she does not understand.   
  
He tugs her close again. “They will think you are mistaken.”   
  
“Pardon?” she asks.   
  
“They will think that you are mistaken about your feelings. They will pity you. They will think that you fear me and are confused. Because… of the past.”   
  
There. He has said it. It does not feel as if a weight has lifted. He feels worse than before.   
  
She is staring at him, and slowly he watches the understanding dawn.   
  
And then she frowns. “I’m not confused.”   
  
He breathes out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding in. The relief comes to him as a surprise. “I know.”   
  
“So why should it matter what other people think?” she asks, looking up at him.   
  
“You wish to be friends with Europe and the Western world,” he says. “Being so close to me will not help you.”   
  
She steps away again in time for the other nations to enter the room—the recess is over. She catches his eye and watches him for a long moment, thinking. She wishes to say more, but now they cannot.   
  
They sit. They wait.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
The meeting moves in a haze, but, finally, it ends. The nations loiter, the nations linger—but eventually they file away until there is only the two of them left.   
  
She follows the line of nations, though, and he thinks that she will leave. Instead, she closes the door behind the last one, flipping the lock shut. She lingers at the door, hands on the door handles, as if contemplating leaving instead of staying. But instead she turns around, and faces him across the table.   
  
She slowly makes her way around the table, approaching him, moving counter-clockwise. He watches her, silent.   
  
When she’s close enough, she lifts her hands, holds the ends of his scarf tight, and pulls him down a little so that they are meeting eye to eye.   
  
“Vanya,” she says, gravely, but her voice not untouched by the slight waver, “I do not wish for you to make decisions like that on your own.”   
  
He is about to say something but she leans in, kissing his forehead.   
  
“Thank you for worrying about me but—that is not what I want,” she says. “It… doesn’t matter to me what others think, because I’m happy with you.”  
  
“Will you be happy if they say things about it, constantly? If it affects your ability to make friends in Europe?”   
  
She shakes her head. “I’d rather be with you.”  
  
“But your country wouldn’t.”   
  
She pauses, and he knows that they both know he is right. But she shakes her head, anyway. “Vanya—”  
  
“I am protecting you,” he says. “Because I couldn’t before.”   
  
She lowers her eyes, biting at her lower lip. He is silent.   
  
She takes a step closer and kisses him—it is sudden, but he kisses her back, lets their mouths dovetail together as she smoothes her tongue against his lower lip and then deepens the kiss. He responds, hands falling to her hips and drawing her closer. She makes the softest of sounds in the back of her throat before she pulls away.   
  
Her breathing is a little harsher now, but only for a moment. She keeps holding onto his scarf’s tail-ends, looking up at him with her cheeks slightly pink.   
  
“It isn’t your job to protect me,” she says.   
  
“I know,” he admits, eyes downcast. “Yet…”  
  
“It’s not,” she says. She kisses the corner of his mouth, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “You are a good brother. I am very lucky.”  
  
He thinks that she is not, thinks that she wouldn’t have said such a thing twenty years ago. But he does not voice this.   
  
She touches his face. As always, his thoughts are perfectly readable for her. Her expression softens, sympathetic.   
  
“You are not the same as you were,” she says. “I am not the same. No one is the same. No one would look at us and think that you were hurting me.”   
  
He is silent. He cannot say if he believes those words or not, but knows that he wants to believe them.   
  
She lifts her other hand, tangling it in his hair, stroking her fingers softly along his scalp.   
  
“You are not hurting me. You make me the happiest,” she says, and smiles. “So happy—I wish I didn’t have to hide it, for that reason.”   
  
He sighs out.   
  
She bumps her nose up against his, smiling. She kisses the other corner of his mouth.   
  
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “We can take it at your pace. But… don’t keep things like this to yourself. Alright?”   
  
“Alright,” he says, and hopes he can keep that promise.  
  
He does not know if he can, only knows that he hope he can. And she steps back, taking his hands with hers and squeezing, and smiling that smile that always comforted him when he was younger—the smile that told him that, no matter what, everything would be alright. She steps away, but he holds onto one of her hands, and the two of them walk together from the meeting room, down the empty hallway, and only letting go at the entrance of the building. They both exchange looks to one another, and let go at the same time. She smiles, reassurance, and touches his arm.   
  
He thinks that it will be alright, and that he will keep his promise. It helps that she’s there to reassure him.


End file.
